


Second Chances

by helens78



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-18
Updated: 2003-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean's not sure how to put himself back together without Viggo, but Viggo wants a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sadness

The bed doesn't smell like him anymore. Sean noticed this when he got back to London and tried to sleep here. He'd put a clean set of sheets on the bed before closing down the house and heading out to Los Angeles, but he didn't realize that the scent of clean laundry carried _nothing_ of his lover's--

\--former lover's--

\--fuck--

\--scent. That it was only after they'd slept in the sheets a few times, after they'd made love and fallen asleep in each other's arms, that the sheets picked up that distinctive sharp smell, the one that Sean used to be able to almost taste in his mind. The one he's starting to forget.

The sweater still smells like him. It's made of wool and only ever got washed when it was actively filthy; it would get tugged on in the mornings when they'd take a walk on the beach together and ended up sitting out on the rocks, talking. Or not talking. Sometimes it was enough for Sean to rest his head on his lover's--former lover's--lap, and feel his fingers carding through his hair.

The sweater is balled up under Sean's head now, and the dark grey wool still smells like him.

Sean wants to get out of bed. Means to get out of bed. There are a million things to do, and he knows he has to get started.

But he was like this yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that, as soon as he got back to his house. He could blame the first two days on jet lag. He doesn't know what the hell to say about today.

He managed to get out of bed yesterday. He even ate something, he thinks, though he can't remember what. He isn't really hungry.

His whole body is tired. Heavy and exhausted and tired. He can't really sleep anymore, though. He's tried.

He keeps trying to sleep, and then the phone rings. He doesn't want to know who's calling, because he doesn't want to know for sure who _isn't_ calling.

He's not calling. He's a former lover. Ex-lover. It's over.

* * *

Sean drags himself out of bed out of sheer boredom. He looks at his bookshelf as he scratches the back of his neck. Something. Tragedy. He's not in the mood for a happy ending. Shakespeare. _Othello._ Or _Caesar._ Or _Lear_. Or... Just anything. Anything at all.

His voice is soft, and he mumbles as he speaks the words aloud, back in his bed, head propped up on the sweater again. He tries to say the words--tries to _feel_ the words, to feel _something_ , _anything_...

He manages another hour of sleep in the middle of Act IV of Othello and wakes up thinking about candlelight.

* * *

The phone rings again. Sean has lost track of how often the phone has run in the last few days. He's lost track of how many days he's been in bed. He's thought about unplugging the phone, but can't bring himself to do it. He just can't answer.

The answering machine is in the kitchen; when he gets there to find something to eat--he doesn't know how long it's been since he's eaten, and he isn't hungry, but he feels like he _should_ eat. He turns away from the machine, deliberately, before he can see whether there are messages on it, and opens the door of the refrigerator. Nothing there, right--he left nothing in the refrigerator except a filtered pitcher of water, because he was leaving the country. The cabinets, then.

The phone rings.

Sean looks in the cabinets and turns up a package of crackers. He munches woodenly on a stale cracker as the phone turns to the message and he hears his own voice saying _Hello, leave a message._

"Sean? Sean, pick up. Sean, please. Please."

Sean stumbles out of the room, chest tightening, and all but flings himself up the stairs and away from the machine.

It'll run out of room on the chip soon and the messages will stop. And if the messages don't get through, the calls will stop. And if the calls stop, then...

...then. He doesn't know.

He goes back to sleep.

* * *

It takes him two more days to get back down to the kitchen. The phone has not stopped ringing, although the answering machine has to be full by now.

Sean glances at the LED display, the number of messages there, and deletes them all unheard.

The phone rings again as soon as the messages are deleted, as if the man on the other end of the line was only waiting for room on the machine to clear up so he could call again. Sean stares at the phone for a few seconds--this really feels like insult to injury, and he's damned if he wants to hear that voice, but--

\--but, fuck, if it _is_ him--

\--fuck, fuck, fuck.

Sean picks up the phone. His voice is gravelly from being used so little. "Yeah?"

"Sean, it's--oh, God, _Sean_."

Sean closes his eyes and sinks back against the counter. "What?" he asks. He's rather proud of himself; his voice doesn't crack. His heart hurts so badly it feels as if it's literally cracking in half in his chest.

"I just... I've been so goddamned _worried_ about you, you haven't been answering the phone... are you all right?"

Sean lets out a long breath, then another one. "You have to stop calling me," he says. He's rather proud of himself for not breaking down in the middle of the sentence.

"Jesus... Sean..."

Fuck. Oh, fuck, this _hurts_. "Please. Stop."

"Sean, did you--did you get any of my messages? Did you--?"

"No. No. I can't. Please don't--please. I'm all right. Please stop calling me."

"Just listen--"

Sean drops the handset back on the cradle. Too much. It's all too goddamned much. He can't remember what he was in the kitchen for. He heads upstairs.

* * *

He's aware of the room getting dark and then light and then dark again. He remembers to crawl out of bed long enough to go to the kitchen for food. He's out of stale crackers, though, so he's going to have to go out for more food eventually.

It's just gotten dim in the room again, so he decides now is as good a time as any. He drags himself off to the bathroom and showers, trying not to think about the last time they were here in the shower, together. He tries not to think of the way he used to laugh, the way Sean used to laugh with him, the impish look in his eyes when Sean said something he'd _thought_ was completely innocent...

He gets himself clean and gets the hell out of the shower.

* * *

It's a decent-length walk to the market, and getting one foot in front of the other feels good. Sean is surprised, almost astounded, at the fact that something can feel _good_ right now. He goes through the motions of buying a few random groceries here and there, mainly concentrating on the movements of his legs and the way it feels to know that he's carrying his own weight forward.

He has arms full of paper bags as he makes his way back to his house, and that feels good, too. He's moving forward, and...

...someone is sitting on his doorstep.

 _He_ is sitting on Sean's doorstep, smoking nervously, fidgeting with a scratched, dark grey lighter. Sean is almost not surprised to see him there. He clutches at the bags he's carrying and clears his throat.

"Viggo?"

"Sean."

Viggo stands up and thrusts his lighter into his pocket. "Can I... help you with...?"

"Get the door." Viggo hesistates, and Sean lets out an irritated breath. "You have the key, don't you?"

Viggo digs through his pocket; the key is on its own, not part of a keychain. Sean makes a soft startled noise at that. _If you flew all the way to London to give me the key to my home back..._

Viggo pockets the key once the door is open. He leads the way into the house and flicks on lights on the way to the kitchen, then takes one of the bags out of Sean's arms and starts unloading groceries. Sean doesn't bother to explain that the dairy products should go on the top shelf and the fruits in the bottom bin; at this point, he just wants Viggo out of his house.

"Sean...?"

"Thank you," Sean says, very stiffly. "What did you want?"

"I don't know." Viggo lets out a nervous breath and runs fingers through his hair. He searches aimlessly in his pockets for cigarettes; Sean sighs and tugs the cigarette case out of his jacket and hands one over. Viggo takes it, then shakes his head. "Thanks. Listen... you didn't listen to any of my messages?" He looks over at the answering machine. The display is reading "6" now, and Viggo looks back at Sean. "Guessing not."

"Viggo, either say something that means something or get out."

"I love you."

Sean chokes and takes a step backward, then another, and then turns on his heel and heads up the stairs.

"Sean, don't--"

"Get out."

"--don't go. Please. I--"

" _Fucking_ get out."

"--was wrong and I'm sorry and--fuck--" Viggo follows Sean into the bedroom and grabs him by the arm. "Sean, _please_."

"Haven't you humiliated me enough?" Sean snaps. He turns to look at Viggo and his eyes close. "If I thought begging would do any good, I'd have done it in Los Angeles," he says, voice gone quiet. "You were determined that it wouldn't work. That it wasn't working. Let it go."

A soft noise and creak of floorboards gets Sean's attention; when he opens his eyes, Viggo is kneeling at his feet.

"I was wrong. And I'm sorry. And I'm begging. Please. Come home."

A minute stretches into two stretches into what seems like an eternity while Sean stares down at Viggo. Green eyes staring into blue. Sean's eyebrows draw together, and Viggo flinches.

Sean leans forward and threads his fingers into Viggo's hair, curling his fingers into a fist and putting his face so close to Viggo's that they can feel each other's breath. Viggo lets out a quiet gasp, but doesn't back away.

"You ever-- _ever_ \--do this to me again..." Sean growls, desperately trying to come up with a threat he knows he can stick to. Because fuck, this was bad--dear fucking Christ, this hurt--and if Viggo does it again, Sean doesn't know what's going to happen.

"I won't," Viggo whispers. "I love you. Never again."

Sean breaks down and presses his lips to Viggo's, crushing lips and teeth, letting Viggo's hair go as he pulls his arms around Viggo's shoulders. Viggo is clawing at his back, trying to get him closer, even a breath between them feeling like too much now.

"Bastard," Sean murmurs, half-growling it. "Love you."


	2. Promise Me

Viggo is buried in Sean, completely; it's not just his body locked inside Sean's now, and he knows it. He's got his arms around Sean as his front presses against Sean's back, Sean pushed up on all fours and Viggo going in slow and smooth and gentle.

"Missed you," Viggo murmurs into Sean's shoulder. "Missed you. Sorry. So sorry. Missed you."

"Doesn't matter," Sean pants back, "doesn't matter, back now, love you, need you, please... harder, faster... God, make me feel it..."

Viggo doesn't speed up; he can feel all of it, his heart is beating rapidly, and this is so good he can hardly bear it. He presses his lips between Sean's shoulderblades and sighs as he keeps moving. "Love you. Not going anywhere."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

" _God_ \--" Sean presses back hard against him. "Love you. Love you. Fuck..."

"Oh, fuck, _Sean._ "

Sean raises himself up on one arm and pulls the other arm to his cock, stroking sharply. Viggo grabs his arm away and pushes it back to the bed. "No," Viggo murmurs, "too fast, want this lasting all night..."

"Bastard." The word comes out a little too sharply, and Viggo hesitates for a moment. Sean arches back against him, panting softly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"I deserve it. Please, just... let me..." Viggo shifts forward again, sliding deeper, making both of them cry out from it. "Let me have you. Let me hold you..."

"Yes, please, God. Have me." Sean pushes back against him, feeling the glide and the burn and tossing his head back as he cries out. "Have me."

"Ah, God..." Viggo draws his hand down the center of Sean's chest and tangles his fingers in the wiry curls at the base of Sean's cock. "Not going to let you go again. Just warning you. Going to keep you for good."

"Promise me."

"I promise." Viggo curls his hand around Sean's cock and shudders, hard, starting to stroke in a fast, even rhythm, one which his body quickly matches, until they're moving together, fast and hard together, voices blending in matched moans with every stroke. "Promise," Viggo pants. "Promise..."

" _Ahh_ \--" Sean pushes back hard for one last stroke and then comes, head falling forward and back arching up. Viggo holds tight and closes his eyes, and then lets himself go, orgasm sliding through him soft and warm and gentle, like comfort, like home.

They collapse, together, on their sides, Viggo still buried in Sean. Viggo keeps Sean's back held tight against his chest as they manage to catch their breath, leaving tiny kisses across Sean's shoulder.

Sean's chest shakes a bit, and Viggo closes his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Don't be sorry. Be _here_."

"Not going anywhere. Love you."

"Promise me."

"I promise."


End file.
